All dressed up with no place to go. On a Friday night, no less. How pathetic was that?
I cursed Jack Callaghan for the hundredth time since he’d gone MIA. The fact that he’d up and vanished during my cousin’s quinceañera was driving me loca. First he’d sparked feelings that I’d never, in my wildest dreams, imagined. Then, poof, he’d disappears. No note. No phone call. Zip. Zilch. Nada.
Jack had started to turn my dreams into reality. Now all I had was an unbelievable ache. A cringe-worthy thought hit me. What if no one but Jack could make the ache better? ¡Ay Dios mio! Without Jack to scratch my itch, what the hell was I going to do?
I could join the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe, I thought grimly as I pulled into the Camacho and Associates’ parking lot. I was an ‘almost’ P.I. who’d potentially lost her ‘almost’ boyfriend. It might be comical, if it didn’t hurt so much.
A disturbing thought struck me. What if Jack had been kidnapped, drugged, and dumped in the river like my last missing person? Or, ¡Dios mio!, what if he’d lost interest in me? I’d supposedly been his crush since high school, but who could really blame him if he decided getting shot in the name of love really wasn’t worth the effort.
At least I had my career. I climbed out of my Rav4 and spotted my boss’s truck. I checked my watch. 8:40. Apparently Manny Camacho didn’t have plans for Saturday night, either. How was that possible? He was puro Latino machismo Greek God material--dark and brooding and scary in an I-could-do-things-to-you-and-make-you-scream-for-mercy kind of way.
I looked around for Isabel, his not quite ex-wife that he’d been spending a lot of time with. Not here. Hmm. Interesting.
I couldn’t help but do a quick primp in the rearview mirror. Low cut filmy dress, Victoria’s Secret Ipex cleavage, clear olive skin, salon-highlighted copper strands framing face, MAC O lips. I grabbed my cell phone, the camera I’d just finished using, my note pad with the case information, and headed toward the office.
In your face, Callaghan. I had options.
Manny pushed open the door and exited onto the sidewalk as I approached. “Dolores? What are you doing here?”
I skidded to a stop, teetering on my wedge heels. He had the ability to intimidate me--without even trying. Not many people could do that.
I swallowed and threw back my shoulders. I’d solved my first case as primary investigator two weeks ago. I felt like I’d finally earned his respect after two years as an intern. It was time to get over the nerves that shot through me when I was around him.
“I just got great pictures for the Zimmerman case.” Especially if I had contacts with Playboy, which, unfortunately, I didn’t.
“Pictures of--?”
“Of Mrs. Zimmerman, um, making-out with her personal yoga instructor.” Okay, it had been way more than making-out, and it demonstrated what fun Jack and I could have had (if he hadn’t dumped me so unceremoniously). Flexibility, it seemed, was instrumental to sexual creativity, and since I was a yoga junkie…
“How’d you get them?”
“I followed them after yoga class.” Damn, I was good.
Manny’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Like that?”
My dress was a far cry from yoga-wear, but hey, I believed in looking as good as I could, even on a surveillance job. “I followed them to dinner.”
“And the photos?”
“After dinner they went around the corner from the restaurant.” No class. Who made out--no, got down and dirty--out in public? “I was across the street.”
I accessed the pictures on the digital camera. His arm brushed against my back as he moved behind me to look over my shoulder. A zing shot through my body and I gulped. Looking at X-rated pictures with my boss was un poquito uncomfortable. I tried not to think about how flexible he might be and whether his limp or his cowboy boots would interfere with the Kama Sutra position in photograph three.
When we’d seen all the pictures, I stepped away. “Open and shut.”
He just nodded. Chatting was not his strong suit. My P.I. curiosity kicked in. Why didn’t he have plans on a Saturday night? “You’re here late,” I said, trying to casually get some information. “Where’s Isabel?” I said her name in Spanish. Ee-sa-bel.
“Not here.”
No kidding.
The corner of his mouth notched up. “Going out with Callaghan?”
Evil question since I was pretty sure that Manny Camacho, ex-cop turned super-detective, already knew that Jack had vanished, where he’d gone, and even why. “Not tonight,” I finally said. “I’m going to upload the photos and write my report for Mr. Zimmerman.” God, did I lead an exciting life, or what?
Manny pressed a button on his key ring and two beeps sounded from his truck. A lifted 4x4, not the most unobtrusive vehicle on the road in Sacramento, but it certainly had style. He gave me another slow once over.
A shiver flew up my spine and I shifted uncomfortably. Jack. I made myself think about Jack. I wasn’t ready to write him off. I’m sure he had a very good reason for dropping off the face of the earth. He’d better, damn it. I wasn’t ready for options. Especially one that included a Mr.-November-from-a-mercenary-calendar boss.
